


The Webs of Wonder

by Control_Room, PipesFlowForeverandEver



Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: A bunch of lost souls love the gal that saves them, Angst, Collaboration, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Loss, Symbolism, The studio, death mention, yay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:26:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22312465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Control_Room/pseuds/Control_Room, https://archiveofourown.org/users/PipesFlowForeverandEver/pseuds/PipesFlowForeverandEver
Summary: Wonder can be both awesome; in both senses of the word.
Relationships: Sammy Lawrence & Francine Vahl
Comments: 13
Kudos: 10





	1. Spinneret Tendrils

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Hymns of Struggle](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12776151) by [PipesFlowForeverandEver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PipesFlowForeverandEver/pseuds/PipesFlowForeverandEver). 



> just a little au where jo's part of gin's studio in hymns

At first, she thought she was being watched - not by Sammy, but by those creeping and dripping… _things_ that lurked in corners. Sometimes, she thought she could catch a glimpse of whatever it was, but whenever she spun around, there would be nothing. Then, for a short time, she had the smallest thought that the studio was driving her mad, but she dashed that from her mind. The fastest way to insure insanity is to dwell and think about it. Maybe Francine _was_ mad, but there’s always one step further down the rabbit hole.

But when she started noticing the messages, something clicked.

It was not a click of comfort, of realizing where one belonged, nor the click of acceptance of fate, despite the cruel nature, it was a click of realization and a pit of dread opening deep in her gut.

Some of the messages were nonsensical, or obvious, like the “dreams come true” etcetera sort, but… this was written in a different hand, the letters more jagged than painted, as though one had used a twisted finger instead of a brush. The way they scrawled- almost unreadable, pained- made the young woman unconsciously touch a hand to her heart. Sometimes, it’s more than the words that tell you things. Like the other messages, it was written in all capital letters, crying for attention, but the locations and the size; they were unreachable, they were thin and nigh unreadable.

Normally those ones were on the ceiling.

She spotted one while wandering in search of _something,_ **_anything._ **

‘Don’t turn left.’

Out of curiosity, in that corridor, she had, not ignoring the words on the floor, but putting them in mind. 

She was cautious, and with good reason - the left door, beyond where the main light could reach, was pitch dark, but she had her phone, and she could see, just out of sight, just a few feet further into the hall, there was no floor. Simply a gaping hole. Had she not had a light, well… she did not want to think about that. Wrenching a bit of wood from the corner of the abyss’s cliff, she let it fall, waiting for a splash.

Looking at the clock on her phone.

A minute passed.

Two.

Three.

F- keploosh.

“...Fuck.”

A chill ran up her spine.

That would have been one terrifyingly long fall.

A thought struck her.

Whoever wrote that message must have been able to see the mouth of the abyss, or at least been aware of it somehow.

It made her be on the lookout for more of those scrawled notes.

She found them, here and there, normally warning of a danger that was laying unseen.

‘Missing a stair’

And so the flight did, and the woman stepped over.

‘Three doors down dangerous’

It only took her once to just believe it, to hear the screams and turn tail.

‘Turn around, sometimes.’

… That one was new. 

Not only to her, but she squinted up at it, and grabbed a chair, going up onto it to reach to the inky message.

Ink came off on her hand. 

She stared at it.

Someone was aware of… her. Being there.

Leaving her notes.

Francine turned around.

…

… 

Nothing.

Later, as she would wander the studio, sometimes with Sammy, she would turn around - and she would get a glimpse of… something, thin, long, weblike, but she was never fast enough to get a full view. 

She felt almost protected, there was something watching over her. It felt sweet.

Though likely out of curiosity. 

‘It’s gonna be ok’

Okay, maybe not.

More of the messages began relaying this, this awareness. This concern. “Keep breathing”, “you can do it”, and more things of the sort. It was a disconcerting problem and yet a good problem to have all at once; someone that loves you- or at least cares- from far away. This creature right after knowing Sammy and Alice convinced her this world of torn paper wanted to be kind even when lost dreams stung- when the emptiness of unwanted immortality pulled inner darkness to the outside. She wondered what it meant that they seemed to try to make her fill that empty space.

But then still there were questions, ones that tugged at her heart.

‘Do you miss the sun, Francine?’

That one was scrawled on a clock, confirmation that someone knew her by name- her specifically.

She looked at it’s ticking seconds, one, two, one, two, and her eyes watered. Air snorted through her nose as if to expel the deep sadness infecting the room, and hands folded in front of her and fidgeted with stress no where else to go.

Except her eyes, that is.

Sitting against the wall, she looked up at that little note, and let herself cry, just a little bit, and realized, oh, yes, she missed the warming light more than she could have ever imagined. She loved the way it heated her hair- gave her highlights and carried with her until she found shade. She could imagine the way it streaked gold through the trees until it hit her palm, upturned so that another’s could find its way to hold.

Not even Sammy had been brave enough to ask her for sunshine, before this. It was the first thing on the mind, but too much to hope for.

She did not see any new messages for a long time. 

Until the one right outside of her safehouse with Sammy. She hardly noticed it, tucked away in a corner, dripping, fresh.

‘Can you hear me?’

Francine’s heart started pounding.

She did not feel it at first, only after, just tudududu rising into BUM BUM BUM. Was it excitement, elation, anxiety, fear?

Should she answer?

“Hello? I- I can hear you!” she called, as loudly and clearly as she dared. “Are you there?”

She turned around in a small circle.

All she saw was a bit of inky webbing in the corner diagonal to where she was standing, a sign that if… whatever it was, was there, it was gone now.

She bit back a curse. 

Sammy came out, peering at her. She could almost imagine him squinting at her. 

“Who were you talking to?” he asked her, and she could hear his brow arch in his words alone. “There’s no one here.”

How foolish of someone who knew the pipes themselves listened.

“Yeah,” she knew her voice was disheartened, but she tried to smile, anyways. She reluctantly pulled her phone out of her pocket, turning on the flashlight, readying herself to continue on their searching journey. Her grin was offered again, with an assuring- almost challenging- raise of the brow to mask great doubts she didn’t feel ready to reveal to her prophet friend. “I know. I thought I saw someone, but...I guess I was wrong.”

Even still, Francine needed to ask someone. Who was leaving those messages?

And why were they doing it? 

Why did they always run?

She thought of one being who might know the answer.

After she and Sammy explored around for a while, she excused herself as he returned to their safehouse. Reluctantly allowed, Francine was about to make her way up, up, up, to the angel’s domain, but something stopped her. She had to know, and asking _her_ had seemed like the only possible way to find out anything. But… 

Her head turned over her shoulder, a frown cutting into her cheeks.

There was a door, creaking open, not five feet in front of her. Maybe… just maybe… she would not have to ask her. Maybe she would find out herself, here, now.

She slipped into the room.

It was small, and dimly lit, but lit nonetheless. A feature that struck her was that the square shaped area was practically bare, a few scattered papers on the floor and a solitary chair in the center of the room, nothing else. On the wall, right before her, was another note. And as soon as it was seen, there was not anything else worth looking at. 

‘I tried to be there for everyone, and in the end I was there for no one.”

She stared at it for a long moment.

And then, her feet backed up- backed up- until sat in the chair slowly, lowering herself into it to read the words, over and over. Her eyes never lifted, as much as they might have wanted to, with all this weaving like a needle through her brain.

Oh… oh…. Something deep in her was churning, something was making sense, but her mind was still yet unaware of it. 

Did that mean….

Whoever was leaving these notes….

She could not finish the thought as tears dripped down her cheeks, trailing between her dark freckles. 

She sniffed, gripping her arms. She was cold. God, why was this world so cold?

Then she felt it. 

Something simultaneously cold and warm, both solid and liquid, pressing to her cheek, cautiously, slowly wiping away the tears that dripped down it.

She looked up with a strangled shriek, toppling out of the chair with wide, wet, petrified eyes. 

What was she looking at?

What was that thing?

If it could speak, it either didn’t say a thing or she simply hadn’t heard it over the breath she was busy trying to catch.

It looked back at her with equally wide eyes, frozen still.

Their gazes were broken by her looking over it once more, trying to figure out where the being started and ended. It slowly began moving once more, slowly, so slowly, just fast enough for her to register that it _was_ moving at all. 

It made its way to the wall, and, making its way down in an odd zig zagging backwards fashion, stood before her.

Part of her was elated to finally know who was leaving her all those notes.

The other part, the louder part, was horrified and screaming at her to turn tail and run.

It loomed over her, looking down with oddly shiny, not glowing, pink eyes, seeming so sad where it stood. Her breathing was hard and fast.

A large hand rose, slowly, carefully, and pointed at her chest, her pounding heart. 

Then back at itself, where a hole formed the shape of what was once a heart. The ebony flesh of the rest of the spider-like corpse dripped and dripped as if to fill it. It simply could not, empty as it could be.

They both stood there.

Then the thing shifted.

And leapt to the ceiling, making her jump down to the floor to avoid the motion, and with a final gaze at her, it bolted out of the room.

It was only then that her senses seemed to work again, seeing all her answers disappear.

She snapped out of her daze, and pulled herself to her feet, swearing under her breath before following after in a dash.

“Wait, come back!”

Her voice echoed back to herself, loud and frantic underneath her footsteps.

“I’m sorry, please come back!”

Tears bubbled in her eyes again, hot and frustrated. She felt a shout roughen the back of her throat- a scream.

“I NEED YOU! I NEED _HELP!”_

But so soon in the labyrinth she nearly lost her way, darting this way and that through the halls, and eventually found herself back at the door she started by. She kicked next to it, frustration exhuming itself through the force of the motion. She curled up, angry at herself for scaring off the one person that could have helped her, and blazing tears tracked down her face once more, screaming into her hands.

Glancing back into the room, all she could do was groan, and so she did as loud as her voice allowed. Of course asking for help would make them feel bad. They obviously tried to help others before, and to no good end. 

Picking herself up and scolding herself for crying over spilled milk, she walked back into the room, trying to find any clues. 

The papers on the floor were all stained to yin yang with ink blotching it all up, only a few scrawled notes of “tea at three” or other things without any hints to anything. At least the handwriting was the same as on the walls, that was one small comfort.

Maybe someone else knew.

So she went up to her.

The floorboards creaked as she entered the warmly lit area, alerting anyone who may be there of her presence, and there was one she was hoping for.

“There you are, my sweet cherub.”

The nickname both sent shivers down her spine but a smile to her lips, and Francine wiped away the remnants of her blotchy tears. 

“I have a question for you,” she blatantly remarked, going over to sit on the rough couch she had once slept on. “Who writes those messages?”

“We all did, at one point or another,” Alice sighed, sounding both bored and tired. “Why do you ask?”

“I mean, who’s the…” she tried to figure out how to explain what she saw. “They’re uh… spidery? And um… goopy? They seem to follow me… show up at the right time.”

The angel’s expression was unreadable.

“Go on.”

“I think they had pink eyes-”

“They shone? Like pink glass?”

More excitement, now.  
  


“Yeah, yeah, exactly,” she smiled, relieved that Alice knew who she was talking about. “Do you… do you know who that is?”

“Mm.” Alice stepped out of wherever she had been working, straightening her dress, tilting her head. “Have you seen the shape of him?”

Him. So it was someone she remembered, but who? 

“Yes,” she nodded, motioning with her hands to form the inky horns on the top of it- his head. “He had horns.”

It was actually a very weird fucking question until Francine heard herself say the last part. But before she could point it out, Alice chuckled, but it felt dry, without warmth. 

“He always wanted to be the favorite,” Alice crooned, resting her head on her steepled hands, gazing at her with half closed eyes. They didn’t see Francine anymore. “Bendy, the shining star of Joey’s life, trying, oh, so hard to please him, to be that star. He wanted to be the favorite, so much, but he was too afraid, shying away from the spotlight, too scared to be seen.”

A scoff followed, and the other woman could hear the unspoken, ‘unlike me’. 

“He hides, my cherub. In corners, in the shadows, right above your head.” Involuntarily, she looked up, half expecting to see him there, relieved that he was not. Francine could only guess what the angel would have done if otherwise. “He’s not the demon, no. But… but maybe he wants to be.”

“Is there anything else you can tell me?” she asked Alice, softly. Alice’s gaze hardened, to which Francine did her best not to squirm. “... Anything at all?”

The answer arrived just as stone cold as her current stare.

“No. Enough of him.”

And thus the conversation ended, and the next time Francine, the wanderer of flesh and blood stood at the mouth of the studio’s halls, she had to wonder who else it was that saw her too, and what they thought of her, if they thought at all. 


	2. Conversational Strands

Sammy did not remember him, as he did not for many things. That was what she managed to garner out of the situation. Hesitantly, he had admitted to seeing what he called the shadow of the demon, though for brief moments, barely enough time to see anything at all, and had attributed it to the splotchy and rather terrifying nature of the studio itself. Well, that, and that little clue about the shadow of the Ink Demon. So Francine gave up on asking him - clearly he was not going to be able to answer any questions about… whoever it was without more detail. 

Something in her was not quite convinced there was not something from the studio’s old life in the creature. Even if Alice spat fire about it, details about someone named Joey came up that had not before. So now that was at least two more people that could still be here.

But at the rate things had been going with the angel, the prophet, and the electric man that lurked downstairs, just one more was enough to worry about for now.

There were moments she caught a glimpse of those webs of ink; other times she could feel him watching her. But more often than not, he was just… hiding away in the shadows, the inky darkness swallowed by the tenebrosity of the halls. Just like Alice said he would be, slinking away from sight. There were times she considered calling for him, but always scrapped those ideas, for a few reasons, one of which she had no idea  _ what _ to call him in the first place. Did he even remember his name? A hunch told her “eldritch spiderman” was not going to cut it. Another reason was because the others had warned her more than enough times to be aware that if she called someone’s name, another might show up that was not nearly as friendly.

So, she trudged on. What else could she do?

After wandering aimlessly for some time, she came across an arrow painted on the ceiling above her. Fresh, in that thin, shaky hand. Hesitating and biting her lip, she wondered - should she follow it? Solving that question pressed at her mind, leaving Francine standing there, staring up at the ceiling as though it were made of the most peculiar sort of aviary feathers, studying that angle, trying to make sense of what to do. She tried to arrange the facts she had about the being, disheartened by the lack of them. The creature as of yet had not attempted to harm her in any form - in fact preventing harm from coming her way! Warning her of dangers unseen or cautioning her to the mind traps within the halls. 

Keeping on hand on the wall, a deep breath filled her lungs as the woman followed the arrow down the hall against better judgement. Dread was replaced with anticipation once another one showed at the end, ready to guide her further along. Ominous though; that was all the same. It made the path slow, but whoever designed it might have kept her comfort in mind, as it was easy on her tired limbs, generally remaining on the same floor and with minimal turns. Leading her to an unknown destination, but slowly and steadily. It almost felt wrong, considering the literal chases everyone else put her on. Eventually, she came to the final arrow, pointing her into a room only just when she began to consider that maybe this was a bit  _ too  _ easy. Francine glanced over her shoulder. Is it too late now?

Her hand decided before her brain could make a desicion, pushing against the door.

The room had stacks and stacks of papers, but it was not cluttered. On the wall, another note - turn around. Did she have a choice? 

...

And so she did. 

And there they were.

The being was pressed to the wall, the ink of his flesh dripping rapidly, in fear or anticipation, she had no idea. Beside it, one word was written.

Ask.

She stared at it, first the word, then the creature, not quite understanding what it wanted from her, why it led her here. At first, her assumption was the worst; a sort of “I dare you to ask me why I shouldn’t-” But the heart in her chest reminded that only the dark walls and thumping machine were scary, not the people they drove mad. So she read the word again, ‘ask’, tilting her head, her brow furrowing.

The being, with crooked stitches in the shape of a smile and eyes made of pink shattered glass, pulled himself off the wall, slowly, carefully, and pointed at her with his giant, weblike, dripping finger.

“Me…” Francine sounded out dumbly.

He gestured at the word written out.

“Ask…”

And then pointed at himself.

“You?”   
  


It took her a moment to register the words into something more coherent, but when she did, her eyes widened, mouth opening slightly.

“Oh! Oh, you want me to ask you questions!” Perhaps the sudden chirp in her voice was relieving to more than just herself, as the man stretched thin till his legs dragged out the door watched in silence. “Oh. Ok, sorry, I didn’t understand,” she breathed, her heart rate picking up, hardly daring to believe it. The being in front of her was offering Francine what she has been looking for the whole time, and she needed to take a moment to process it all. Yet, now it was in her hands, she had no idea what to say. A hand raised in the air to wave, albeit awkwardly, a small equally awkward smile accompanying it. “Um…” She waved back, just as awkwardly from the hip. “Hello.”

The reply she got was a jerking nod, a confirmation of understanding, lifting a small weight from her chest, allowing her breath to flow with greater ease. He seemed wary, jittery, but then again, she was too. They were both in a nerve wracking environment, and being honest, she might have found it more disconcerting if he  _ was not _ nervous. 

As everyone was so pleased as punch to point out, it was not often someone that still looked the way she did made it down their way without that changing.

“So,” Francine bit her lip, trying to approach this situation, worry lacing its way up and down through her veins. “Uh… do you want to sit down?”

An inelegant conversation starter, certainly, but she did notice that his jouncy motions slowed, becoming more relaxed, though he shook his head, his fingers lacing between each other to quell whatever anxiety seeped through him. No, he did not want to sit. Thank you for offering. 

“Okay,” she exhaled with a small nod. She could do this. “Uh, my name is Francine - though I guess you already know that.”

He nodded, slower, allowing her to take her time with thought.

“First question,” she pondered for just a moment longer, lightly clapping her hands together, but then stirred with what she wanted to know of him. Finally, something crossed her mind. It was the first thing she asked Sammy, and although she regretted the phrasing then, she had enough doubts now to not change it. “Do you have a name?”

The reason he chose this room particularly for this odd interview became apparent with her question. He reached over to one of the stacks of paper- like a post-it note between his fingers- and wrote deliberately upon it, turning it to her when he finished.

‘JOHAN’

The way his finger lingered over the last letter, the way he stared at it - Francine saw the familiar unfamiliarity in his face, however featureless it may have been. But somehow, the eternal smile ached as it stretched under glossy pink eyes. Pink was an unusual color here, like her. Then, Francine turned to study the name that was put so carefully onto the yellowing paper.

“Um… Yo-hann?” she pronounced cautiously, looking to him with a furrowed brow for confirmation. “Or is it Jo-han…?”

A shudder ran through him with both pronunciations, but he still shrugged - either worked for him, and… it had been so long since he had heard any name for himself. 

Maybe someday she would figure out it was that way when he was alive, too.

She swallowed, nodding once more, attempting to arrange her mind more clearly. What can she ask? He seemed so, so flighty- that very first time they met face to face, he just ran off, and he never stayed long enough to do more than write messages- and the way he moved- jerking, shaking- indicated his fragility, broken in too many places, body intact, but what of his _ mind? _ He had to have gone through so much, if his story was anything like those she came across before him. What can she ask of him? Her mind fell static and blank.

“What was…” She copied the motion she remembered him doing between them, first to her heart, then pointing at his. “What was that?”

Another paper was picked up. 

He wrote ‘different’ onto it, showing her the word, shaking his head.

“Different?” Francine repeated softly, gazing intently at the words. “We’re different?” It made her heart sink.

It- He- Johan shook his head, drawing a line over the word.

_ “Not  _ different? Oh!” Her face brightened with the exclamation. “Yeah! I- I didn't think so either! Or, well, I just figured that… that we weren’t so different. I still have to get to know you.”

A blink followed. She took a moment to pull the chair out from the corner of the room, sitting down, keeping an eye on Johan the whole while, unsure if he would just run off, like he had so many times before. Pondering the statements that just had come from her own lips, she noted the absurdity of it all.

She squinted, then looked up at him, inquiring with genteelity, “Why are we not different?”

A hand rose to tap his head. 

She copied the motion, deciphering the meaning. Her eyes closed, concentrating hard. Her eyes snapped open as she realized what he meant, mouth forming an ‘o’ of surprise. 

“You…” Her back straightened in the chair, and her expression fell from elation to a twisted empathy, her heart twanging with sharp ice. “You remember.”

A pause lulled between them, but then, he nodded. He  _ did  _ remember. More than most would. More than most  _ could _ . And he was willing to share. This knowledge sat both with a satisfaction and a fear within her. No one that could remember was willing to share with her the past. A deep breath ran through her lungs yet again, her chest swelling, the dawning of the daunting well of information that had suddenly opened before her, and now that it was there… she was not so sure about how much she really wanted it. Or how willing he truly was with sharing the highly coveted knowledge.

“Are you…” she began, swallowing, shifting in the chair. _ “Really  _ okay if I ask you about it? Do you want me to talk with you about these things? If they hurt- I- I don’t-”

As Francine began to shrink in her chair, Johan loomed before her, all encompassing, yet compassionate. It was… odd. When she scrunched her eyes he looked just like the ink demon, and yet his looming never felt this…  _ personal. _

His presence was suddenly grounding, solid, as was the nod that replied to her, firm, certain. 

Then, Johan sat before her, his body at odd angles she could hardly believe used to be suitable for a chair, unused to the scrunched and bunched up position, but still, he sat before her, hoping to calm her. 

She glanced over him, eyes trailing over his spindling limbs, truly taking in his shape, thinking of the angel’s words - and now that she could really see him, she saw too that something was so… askew about all of him. But one feature stood out - the way that even though he was seated on the floor, and she on a chair, his eyes remained nearly at level with hers.

“...You’re  _ really  _ tall,” she murmured before catching herself. As was her way, the wanderer either thought an hour before speaking or not a second at all, and if he had not reacted so soon, she would have hit herself in the face. Johan, however, seemed bemused by her words, a small nod answering. But the assuring answer brought with it further floodgates. Without filtering, still, she asked, “Does it hurt?”

Johan could have asked what she meant, but… everything hurt, all the time. No one specific ache, but a dull throbbing in all matters of existence. So, he nodded once more, slower. 

“I see,” Francine’s expression fell even more. The woman sighed, wondering, and then realized she could ask, just as he promised her from the start.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

If Johan had faculty of his mouth, he would have said, “Bring a shit ton of morphine.” However, he could not say such a thing, so he shook his head, a twinkle of comfort in his rose-tinted eyes, a weak attempt to soothe her. But then she tucked her knees in, sniffling slightly.

_ “I’m so sorry,” _ she whispered, forlorn and dejected. To hurt forever… God, her stomach hurt imagining it. She did not even know what kind of pain it was; she did not know if it even mattered- if all the pain just bundled together into a big jumble of stinging nerves and discomfort all over his body. Her broken ribs still ached inside her… what if every second it hurt him to breathe, like she did those short moments?! What if every breath- every second of living- was one second after the next breathing in until it felt like broken bones popped your lung like a balloon, and then the next he exhaled in hopes for a relief that would not come? Just over, and over, and over-

Johan’s hands rose, making a ‘no no’ motion, along with his head shaking - telling her not to be sorry. Yet, even as she began to pull herself out of her own panic attack, this did the trick. Eyes went from dull to bright again as his gesture’s meaning seeped into her mind, releasing a gasp and making her cover her mouth, a blush rising. She did not intend to make him feel bad, or babied. 

“... Sorry.” It was hardly a squeak after all that.

Johan shook his head again, and she responded with a curt nod. Francine would not let anyone fret about her when there was already enough for them to mull over for themselves.

“Well,” she tried to gather her thoughts, tone exhausted but resolute, “... Let me know if that changes.”

Silence reigned over them after his nod of reply, and Francine took the opportunity to recollect, her taking slow breaths, calming, deep, and deliberate. She rubbed her head, trying to think of what to say yet again, and after looking over him, she got her answer.

She could only hope he was up to it.

“I don’t… I don’t know why you all are like this,” she admitted quietly. Johan tilted his head, prompting her to elaborate on her statement. “Well… why you’re all… all  _ changed.” _ __   
  


Johan’s hand inched to another paper, constantly pausing, thinking, uncertain. Francine noticed his action, and her eyebrows arched up. 

“Is… is that something that you know?”

He hesitated with the paper clutched in his hand, and then he wrote slowly - ‘have idea’.

He showed the paper, then pointed at himself.

“You have an idea of what happened?” she questioned softly, with a faltering nod answering. Her arms unfolded, and she barely reached toward him, but her hands fell down to her sides. She wiped her teary eyes. “Is it… is it something you can tell me?”

He nodded once more, extremely slowly.

His hand came to the paper again, drawing a line. Drawing a line. Drawing a line. Stuck.

Her eyes flicked up to his face, and she realized - he was just as scared and anxious as she was, only more difficult to read. But just as human.

She extended a hand to him, offering it for Johan to hold. For comfort. To steady him.

He stared at it, eyes flicking from her hand to her face. 

And he took it into his right hand, enveloping it nearly entirely. It was softer and rougher than it appeared all at once. She observed how massive it was; full over hers. 

Then she noticed that he was writing once more. 

‘Joey’ there was that name again… ‘drowned all’

Her eyes widened, and she looked up at him, trying to imagine what it would be like, to drown in, what was most obviously in the situation, ink.

‘Wanted back’ a pause, ‘ _ made _ come back’

She gasped. He looked to her, finger still dragging on the paper. 

“No, no,” she shook her head. “Keep going.”

‘Twisted’ she gazed over him - and yes, that word seemed to fit. ‘how he saw’

His finger tapped on the paper, and then he added, ‘maybe’

Johan looked to her, with twinkling sorrowful eyes, apologetic. 

Francine leaned forward to reread it. Her head rested on one of her hands, the other hand making comforting circles within Johan’s hand. Her lips pursed in discomfort.

Joey.

Alice had mentioned him too. 

What happened here has a name to blame; and she has no idea what to make of it. 

How can one person do something like this?

Something so destructive?

Francine looks around the room, and imagines the ink welling up, up, up, around her throat and over her mouth and nose. 

Inhaling sharply, she rubbed at her neck.

_ “What happened to you?”  _

Spat out from the back of her throat, desperate as if she was right there with him.

The pink of his eyes widened, and if she looked hard enough, there may have been something behind those glassy eyes. He pointed at himself, head tilting in wonder. Was she… was she really talking to him? Asking about… him?

“Yes, to you,” she repeated, giving the hand she still held a squeeze. “It must have been terrible….”

Johan hesitated. He tried to block that day from his memory - those days. 

Long, pitch black, freezing days. 

He was certain that everyone else had passed within ten minutes while he was captured in the raging torrent, the air - the ink - thick around him, a painting frozen in time.

Terrible and bleak indeed.

His finger came to another paper.

‘Fast flood’ after a moment, he wrote ‘too’ before the words.

‘Screams for a second’

‘Silence’

‘Cold’

‘Dark’

He was starting to shake, but so focused on his task, he did not notice. 

‘Alone’

‘Alive’

‘Until’

He was stuck, again. Looking at that until. He knew what happened; he had reconciled himself to it as it took over his body, but seeing it written out before him, in his own hand, still there, still… pseudo living, he was stuck in time. Remembering the feeling of his organs giving out to the liquid that intoxicated him, that surrounded him, that brought him back.

Back.

Back to the present.

To this, this girl, this woman. This, this absolutely wonderful being of true life, how desperately he yearned for her freedom!

He finished his sentence.

‘Poison’

Francine read it, and read it again.

He died of poison. The poison in the ink. Had he been aware that everyone around him was long gone? He seemed to remember so much….

She leaned toward him, her forehead coming to rest near his spidery chest. She noticed then; the being that he was never breathed. She sniffed away a tear, forehead pressed to his chest.

Johan stared at her, shocked still by the… real interaction. So real, so palpable, and so tangible. Shakily, shakily, his arms rose to embrace the rather small being she was compared to him, reveling in her stout solidity, eyes closing tightly, arms loose to allow her escape if she realized that this monster around her was exactly that; a monster. He could almost pretend he was himself once more in their mismatched hug, almost.

Which is why the chair suddenly planted against the side of his head felt so jarring. 

“Begone, shadow of the demon!” Sammy’s voice rang out, wielding another chair as though it was a sword. Johan just seemed surprised by the one that had just smacked him square on his face, bending down to pick it up and right it, that he accidentally dodged the second one that was thrown at him. “Go back to the hell from whence you came!”

“FUCK!” Francine shouted, horrified. “I’m okay! Seriously, no-!” Sammy froze with another chair in his grip, and he set it down with a huff. Then the dust pan whipped through the air, slamming against Johan’s chest. “JESUS CHRIST, SAMMY!”

Johan, bewildered, stood, holding the dust pan he had caught tightly to his chest. What was he supposed to do with it? It wasn’t like a single dustpan would magically clean up all of the mess in the massive studio. Francine and Sammy bickered, talking so fast it was nearly unintelligible to him, but he could understand she was explaining that he was not a threat to the prophet. They both then turned to study him. 

He felt pressurized, glancing between the two, and put the dust pan on his head, much to their surprise, grabbing another paper to write.

‘A hat!’

A snort burst from Francine, her eyes wider than two full moons. 

Then, from those two shining moons, two trickles of tears tracked down her cheeks. Both Sammy and Johan stared, the prophet glaring at the spidery man with an expression of ‘look at what you have done’. Johan scribbled quickly on the flipside of the paper, ‘why’ and mimicked the trail of tears on his own face.

“You’re just… just so!”

Overwhelmed with all his humanity- his suffering then followed up by such tender silliness- Francine raised her hands into her hair and exhaled hard. The two inky men were left at least another moment to glance at each other and judge.

After Sammy had his fill, he said one last thing over his shoulder as he walked up to Francine to escort her out.

“Watch yourself.” A hiss, almost. A glare behind the eyes of that mask. “I don’t know...what occurred here. But I will find out.” He turned to the hysterical Francine, trying her best to speak protests but readily leaning into him all the same. His voice turned softer. “Soon.”

Johan, still garbed with the dustpan, turned his thin, straggly neck to watch them leave the room. He and the woman who asked so much of him caught sight of teary eyes and sharp glass respectively, and soon, there was nothing left in this space but the shadow of the demon and notes of things he wished he could forget.


	3. Fanged Darkness

Only her soft sobbing filled the air for quite some time as the prophet sat across his sheep. Sammy had practically dragged her to the safehouse- as he once did before, when she and his lord first met- but as he was quick to search for answers, it was revealed instead that there was nothing he could do to press for words. Beside herself, with the fighting and the things she learned about the rose-tinted man, Sammy could only wait for Francine to calm down.

And so he did, sitting across from her at the table Henry and Boris once sat at. Once or twice he reached his hand, see that her face was still in her hands, and pull back. The arms as dark as the night sky retreated,

And patient is the night, if times of day even mattered here.

Another hand, with skin and fingers, eventually reached over and grasped around his four fingers. Just like that, it all came back; his rage for the shadow of the ink demon made a heart with no blood race and lungs with no air hitch. But then...a squeeze. A gesture just as familiar as the first time they sat across this table. Her eyes rose.

She waited, just as he did, because it was really him who had something to say.

Hesitant to admit it, the prophet asked instead, “Did he hurt you?”

Francine shook her head. He tilted his masked face, a smile disguising a grimace underneath. Then, something bizarre:

“Are you certain?”

Too perplexed to say anything back, she just raised a brow, leaving him forced to explain himself.

“I-” His assuredness so soon broken into something almost embarrassed. “I… You’ve been weeping. I simply- I…-” Excuses were falling short, putting cracks in his voice. The woman glanced him up and down evaluatively.

“Why don’t you trust him?” 

There it was. Sammy, beside himself, gasped another uncomfortable “I-” as his shoulders shrank at his sides and he had to introspect one more time about he who lurked at the heels of his god, but in an entirely new way. He thought a moment to say he would be unhappy with anyone who might have made Francine cry, but they knew each other well enough by this point for her to imagine something more hostile in nature would cause him to throw chairs.

“He’s never…-” A pause, Sammy tilting his dripping chin up, stress melting him as it did when asked to retrospect. A spot on the ceiling received his stare- his wandering mind- until both were gone in an exhale. 

“...He follows him, Francine.” Hardly a murmur from a man so confident only moments ago. “He crawls on the walls, and he hides in the corners, behind the spiderwebs and corners of my sight. He stares.” 

Sammy seemed haunted, Francine noted.

“He stares with eyes made from noxious-colored glass. Nothing else is that color. That’s the only way you know he’s there, that he’s watching. But he never speaks. You open your mouth to do so and he slithers away, from whatever trench of pipes in the walls he slithered from.”

Francine at this point had a hunch. She continued to stroke the back of his hand, beads of ink sticking to her thumb until it returned to soothe once again.

“Has he ever hurt anyone?”

And despite Sammy’s snap judgement just before, he paused- because he _ knew- _ and he shook his head.

“Then… why were you so afraid for me?”

No matter how sweet her voice, its words now could only pound, pound, pound. Like the angel, there was a reason he avoided the shadow. There was a reason he had prayed Francine would never find- rather, be found- by him.

The shepherd in his unease folded his arms and frowned until a head turned to the wall could show his real teeth despite the ones of the wood in front.

“He has his  _ shape.” _ The sudden spit of it came as a surprise to her. “Horns above a mouth stitched into a grin. Massive paws, with arms that stretch across the room.”

The contempt was clear even without his speaking. 

“He slinks behind our lord. And if not him, then  _ us. _ He is not the demon. He cannot help us.”

Another, more concerning reason for Francine to raise her brow. “Help?”

Sammy’s breath could only groan this time around, all his restraint spent. A hand slipped behind his mask and rubbed where his eyes would be. “Maybe he’s less of a false god and more of a lost puppy.” The last word was...strange off his tongue, but a phrase that seemed appropriate nonetheless. Must have been from when he was human. 

Remembering he was human didn’t help his disposition. 

“He overhears things, Francine. He listens through whispers of the pipes overhead and eavesdrops from the rafters. He  _ listens, _ and then… he  _ gives.” _

The nature of his explanation left her awestruck, tugging her mouth to gape just long enough for him to stand from his chair.

“Excuse me.” A still curt but not often used phrase, considering how many times Sammy had become overwhelmed and left her before. No, this wasn’t just something new from his past life that he had to remember. This was something from now, that maybe- just maybe- he had to accept.

Francine held onto his hand as long as she could before the length of her arm ended, and it fell limply to her side. It crossed her mind to follow Sammy and inform him that perhaps, in asking Bendy for his blessings, that their lord had delivered… through this “shadow.” But on one hand, she pondered as she stood up herself, this was more than likely what her friend was debating himself.

On the other hand, the young woman decided as she opened the door to the studio’s darkness once more, Johan’s purpose must have been more personal than that.

Much more personal.

And she would find out.


	4. Urticating Splinters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> realized that the ordering of the chapters is slightly off, apologies! that has since been repaired. - cr

Francine’s thoughts wandered around the dark halls of her mind, even as she wandered through the dark halls of the studio. 

Her conversation with Sammy played back to her repeatedly.

Why were Johan’s actions so irregular compared to the rest of the studio’s inmates? He actively took refuge in the shadows, remained silent where all else groaned, creaked, and shrieked, remembered when everyone else forgot… had a figure of one they all feared and revered. 

Why?

Feeling unease from the lack of an answer to any of her questions, she quickened her pace, trying to distract herself from her swirling thoughts.

The light of her flashlight swept back and forth over the darkness. What was she looking for? What could she find? Could anyone lead her in the way she needed to go?

Was there a right way to go?

Suddenly, her own light flashed back, blinding her momentarily, a cry escaping her lips. 

Blinking, she tilted the flashlight back towards the area that so strangely reflected her phone’s flashlight, trying to discover what the object was. A mirror, a shard of glass?

It was something metallic, for certain. She crept towards it, and lifted it from the floor it was lost upon, prying it out of the sticky ink’s grip. It was a pin, the part meant to clasp to clothing all twisted out of shape, but the pin itself was intact, if a little ink stained. It was shaped like a heart.

It made her smile with some melancholy, but turning it over to examine the front left her gaping in shock.

A rainbow glinted back at her under the blazing light of her phone.

Color was a strange thing here. Her clothes, Johan’s eyes, and now…  _ this. _ That felt important, and so she could only bend down to gaze closer.

But it wasn’t too long before Francine looked up, realizing she had been absorbed in her meditations for quite a while, but a wonder refused to leave her. Curling her hand into a fist around the pin, she questioned who she could ask regarding its origins. 

Alice likely would not tell, or it would be too minor a detail for her to remember, though she did remember so much. Sammy, of course, was out of the question, being that he could not even remember his own name at first. And Norman, if he even had a memory behind wires and madness, would not be able to see the pin, nor hear her inquiries, so what could he do for her? The searchers also fell from her mind, and she sighed, a wry grimace slipping onto her face, head leaning back as she exhaled her frustrations.

What, was she supposed to ask the ink demon?

Francine’s eyes snapped open, a gasp of realization slipping out of her lips.

No, she would not ask the demon… but perhaps his shadow would have an answer. 

She crept around for a while longer, having slipped the pin into her pocket after fixing up the prong so that it would not jab her as she walked. She found Johan looking down at her past her second staircase.

“There you are,” she smiled. He blinked, but slinked down to the floor anyways, tilting his head in service to her. “I have some questions for you. Well, just one really.”

To her delight, she watched as he produced some cards from a crudely made bag resting over his hip, just large enough to contain the papers, showing her one that read, “Go on”. 

“Oh, that’s… that’s so clever,” she marveled, then shook her head, returning to her task. “Anyways,” she pulled the pin from her pocket. “Do you remember this? Whose it was, or what it’s importance is?”

Johan grew completely still.

Francine watched him reach towards the pin in her hand, his own hand remaining hovering above hers. Something filled up behind his glassy eyes, and he turned his hand to be beneath hers, asking for the object.

She placed it down into his open palm, seeing as he stepped back, holding the pin to his eyes.

Clear streaks of liquid came from under his pink eyes, and he held it to his chest, curling up.

He never thought he would see his pin again. A whimper nearly slipped from his throat, sealed back by a rough swallow. Johan ran his finger over the face of the pin, trailing its dulled colors, but they were  _ his  _ colors, and that was what mattered.

As his true eyes blinked away tears, those tears slid down, managing to drip down through small gaps to his false ones. Although he was certain it would appear disturbing, to say the least, to the unsuspecting Francine, he wept anyways.’

Francine was quiet as she beheld the gentleness the hulking beast showed towards the pin, the delicate way he handled it. And her eyes came up, up to study his face. Was he… crying?

No one had cried here before, no one besides her, that is. It filled her with a great sadness, yet a bud of happiness as well; it seemed like she had found someone who felt emotions other than anger or confusion. Here was something so human. 

His eyes lifted to see hers. Behind a smile made of stitches, a real one twitched, but briefly.

He lumbered over, and placed her finger on the side of the pin.

Francine could feel a small protruding knob, and she pressed it - and the pin opened, revealing it was not a pin at all, but a locket. Just like all the beings in the studio; they were not monsters, but had hearts and souls and lives before it all, just hidden away. 

Johan carefully opened the pin for her to look through the black and white pictures, some of them blurry, some of them sharp, but all of them clearly loved.

They were, after all, in a heart pin.

She saw a picture of a small child, a baby really; she saw a somewhat overexposed picture of two older gentlemen; a slightly blurry picture of young woman and young man; a very blurry picture of an entire assembly of people.

Being that they were all small, it was nearly impossible to make any features evident, but… there they all were. Human.

Johan watched over her carefully, still softly and happily. Part of him was nearly bubbling with joy, the other in a shock. 

When she finished gazing at each of the photographs, she handed it back. He seemed grateful, and unclasped it, a hand reaching for his chest. Then he paused, looking down at himself.

A great sadness emanated from him. His smile faded, faded as he remembered that he no longer what he once was, no longer a person garbed in clothing, but a monster clothed in ink. Johan’s eyes rose up from his hands, where he looked at the pin that no longer had a place on his being, and those pink eyes met Francine’s. 

Lowering himself to his knees, he hesitantly held the pin out to her, beseechingly.

“You want me to hold onto it for you?” Francine asked him softly. Johan nodded, pressing it into her hand. “Are you sure?”

Johan nodded once more, then took another note out of his knapsack. 

‘Certain’

Francine conceded, her smaller hand wrapping around the pin, putting it back into her pocket.

Johan took out another note, showing her….

A smiley face drawn onto it, a bit shaky, but still a smile.

She looked at his face, and she smiled back at him.

“I’ll take care of it,” she promised. Another note was shown to her, a ‘thank you’.

Then Johan slipped back into the shadows, and with a wave, he was gone, and Francine was alone with his heart.


	5. Vise Filigree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> some encounters.

It was rather... difficult for either to read the other’s expression, the attempt to discern face from ink nigh impossible, darkness and drops of ink hiding the features of the once humans beneath. Accompanying the flood of liquid and synthetic night on their taut skin, Sammy’s was shielded by the stained mask on his face, and Johan’s was hidden behind sore stitches and cracked glass. Neither truly knew how to interpret the other, being that each was so different, both in mind and body. Sammy’s resentment of the false demon made it harder to form a connection, and Johan’s flighty tendencies kept them far from one another. 

Yet now, a powerful magnet drew them together, the irresistible magnet that was Francine. What could be stronger than the overwhelming draw of life? 

The two ink encased skeletons of a bygone era stood across from one another, watching for a twitch, a flinch. Eyes roaming each other, accepting the presence, denying their ineffable bond, a bond of blood from ink. 

Quiet dripping filled the halls, resounding in the echoic chambers and expansive rooms.

The studio was much larger than Johan remembered.

Much, much larger.

Darker. Crueler.

However since Francine had appeared, a light seemed to burst from her thrumming heart, pulling the studio towards her, kindling flames long burnt out, and the dancing shadows turned softer, sweeter, full of the spirit of hope, of renewal. 

They both could feel it, beyond the oceans of ink blotting out the heavenly ceiling, the good flow of Francine poured within their scarred souls. 

Johan and Sammy stared at one another waiting to see who would yield first.

Johan knelt slowly, and trusted the prophet would guard Francine. The prophets were the protectors of the world, raising the people, turning their hopes and dreams to truth.

Silent exchange completed, Johan left Sammy standing alone, drawn away once more by the magnets and paths the studio’s halls pulled them across, immortal puppets in a play for all eternity, their roles interrupted by a soft woman who crashed into their quasi lives. 

****

Norman’s screeching reminded Johan of what he could not have, a way to scream out all the pain burning and bursting in his chest and limbs. But he could not despise the man for it, no, not at all, he brought his own curse upon himself. Norman could never catch him, he never even knew he was around. Johan was silent, and he hid above. Norman was loud, and crashed and stormed below. Each saw the impending collapse, neither acted, and now - now?

Now?

Staring at the ceiling, drawing pentagrams, stars across a sky of broken wood. Every so often, a flickering ray would stream through the cracks in the walls, betraying Norman’s presence so close, yet so far. 

Johan’s hand drifted across the wood, swirling patterns from past paintings, a sweeping reminder of what once was. The swirls expanded off of the stars, showing sparks of false light that only glowed when Norman’s light shone upon the streaks. 

The constellations drawn onto the plafond reflected into the currents below. 

Norman came into the room some time later, followed by Francine, who stayed close to his side, her hand in his somehow gentle grip. He paused, sensing the rush of air that betrayed Johan’s vanishing, and he looked around best he could. Francine looked up, and felt her breath escape her lungs. The fresh stars twinkled down at her as Norman’s head tilted this way and that, shining in the darkness of the deepest recesses of the studio. She stared at them in wonderment, her lips twitching at the sign of a surface, of hope inside and out. When Norman pulled her from the room to continue on their jaunt through the halls, her heart felt significantly lighter, pulled from murky depths by the pseudo suns. 

Little did she know, she was the brightest star in that room, her soul blazing brighter than a million projectors and thousands of stars. 

****

“You never did know when to give up, did you?” the angel’s voice halted him in an instant, freezing him in place. He slipped back into the shadows of the creaking studio, fearful. Had he upset her? He prayed he had not. She soon came to the place he hid, head held high, but without haughtiness. With her natural pride, and, oh Huntokar, he could see her. “You can come out now, Johan.”

Shivers laced up and down him, ink splattering beneath him. Like a wounded animal, he crept out of the shadows, looking up at the angel with tearing eyes.

He could see her, he could see her if he wanted to….

Johan looked down.

“What are you doing here?” Alice asked him, folding her arms. He raised his head, unable to look her in the eye, and carefully pulled out his cards. _Helping_. “Helping? Helping who?”

_Francine_.

“I see.”

Johan studied her face, his brows of ink drawn tight. 

“We both tried to help him, you remember.” Alice continues, looking away. She cannot bear looking at him, a constant reminder of blind dedication and striving without respite to please a man who shaped them into his own desires. “I know you do.”

_Yes._

She looked at his cards, at the scraps of yellowing paper, the stitches over his lips, pink glass hiding red eyes beneath. He tucked the cards into his makeshift bag, carefully with his massive hands, and then that hand reached toward Alice.

Alice looks at his eyes.

There is a longing in them, a pain, an agony she knows well. Too well. Familiarized with and bound by, twin spirits with different hearts. The ink that spewed through the gap in his chest flowed in a haunting rhythm, slow and fast, slow and fast.

His hand was reaching toward Alice. 

Her dainty, royal, and angelic hand pressed onto his. The touch was brief, so brief, but some of the anguish that ran through his every limb made its way into hers. 

She could see him, and he could see her, and something was blocking them from truly touching, though their hands were interlocked.

“Don’t miss,” she began, her throat clogging briefly, “Don’t miss what we never were.”

She turned away, letting go of his hand, head bowed, and the hand she had held moments before touched her chin, tilting it up. Their eyes met, and the gaze held.

A silent message.

_Keep your chin up, Suz,_ he had told her, so many years before, with that same soft smile, the same motion, the same touch to her chin. _It’ll get better. Just gotta have h-hope._

A flash passed in her eyes. After a blink, it was gone. 

But not forgotten.

She walked away without another word, but Johan could feel his lips twitch behind his stitches before he also turned away, slipping back into his shadowy realm, searching for how to help Francine in any way he could. 

They still had hope, even in this ink hellscape. 


End file.
